


Light

by thecaryatid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Family Bonding, Gen, Healing Magic, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24547615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaryatid/pseuds/thecaryatid
Summary: Seteth wished to vanish from the world until stories of the green-haired healer turned into legends once more, but Flayn insisted she would run away before returning to isolation. So they wander, two more peasants robbed of their homes.
Relationships: Flayn & Seteth (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 43





	Light

The ground is frozen here. Flayn crouches down, pressing a hand to cold earth and reaching out with a healer’s awareness of life and growth. There’s nothing but evergreen trees and shallow-rooted grasses. Even in the dead of winter there should be dormant plants and hibernating creatures.

“Brother, do crops not grow here?” 

Flayn’s father walks in the rear of the slow caravan, rough-spun hood pulled over his head. “It is winter, Flayn. Very little grows anywhere.” 

He has never had Flayn’s perception for the living. She reaches deeper. No one will notice her kneeling in the frost; to travelers she looks like a young girl overcome by her first glimpse of Fhirdiad’s distant walls. Still, there is nothing. The earth is fallow, bare of life or the means to support it. 

“I believe there is a deeper reason than that, brother.” 

He sighs. “You cannot investigate now. We are falling behind, and the city gates close at dusk.” 

It’s true. Once again Flayn has become distracted. “Of course. There will be time later,” she says, standing and brushing her skirts off as though she’s wearing church finery instead of simple linen. 

* * *

Fhirdiad is different during peacetime. People swarm the streets, merchants shout and bored guards wait for an excuse to stop newcomers. Flayn has only seen this many people in armies, and the rush and pull of the disorganized crowd is so dissimilar to that. There are so many people in the world; would they truly care that she and her father are different? 

They rest in an inn streets away from an overburdened infirmary, as far from the castle as possible. “It is perfect!” Flayn exclaims when they enter their room. There are two beds, a small fireplace, and a rickety desk on a rug that has faded from brightly-patterned to stripes of gray. Regardless, it is perfect.

“Anything more would draw too much attention,” her father says.

Flayn's laughter resonates off the walls. “Brother, I do not require anything more! Only a place to stay within the world.” That was their agreement when they left the monastery, once the dust of the war began to settle. Her father wished to vanish from the world until stories of the green-haired healer turned into legends once more, and Flayn insisted she would run away before returning to isolation. So they wander, two more peasants robbed of their homes.

They present themselves at the infirmary in the morning. Or, well, Flayn presents herself and her father follows stiffly behind. He’s not gifted in healing or reassurance, but he can carry bandages and clean wounds. Flayn could resent his determined intrusion on this part of her life, but the longer they travel the happier she is to have his support ever at her back. 

This infirmary is so barren it seems impossible to believe that just miles away live the king and his court. Flayn takes it in, the warmth of her magic reassuring as she lets her gaze fall over thin mattresses and splintered floorboards. And the people. Always the people, first of all. 

Every infirmary is the same. The mother who struggled through a difficult labor, the soldiers failed by their country, the child infected by a disease the rich always avoid. Farmers and tailors who found themselves trapped between two armies. There is never a best place to start. 

“Please, may I ease your pain?” she says to a man with a bandaged arm and head. His groan seems the most acknowledgement she will get, so she reaches for her power. It’s always there, a tranquil pool that lives in her heart, it and her father the only constants in a shifting world. 

“Brother, would you unwrap his bandages?” 

He gently picks them away from crusted wounds and begins cleaning the worst of the infection with soft cloth. His worried frown reflects back to Flayn. It’s the same expression he wears when he’s fretting about her, about them being recognized, about things far nearer to his heart than a stranger’s pain. 

Flayn guides light from her heart to her hands, coaxing away the roots of infection and beginning the body’s natural healing. There’s always a decision between saving as many people as possible and providing relief to this one person, healing the rifts in his flesh back to unscarred skin. Today she chooses caution. The infirmary is crowded with patients close to death; she’ll pull them all back from the brink. Tomorrow she will return, healing over and over.

Her father sighs at the end of the day. He usually leaves it at that, sighs and retires to their room, chats about how long they’ll stay and how the professor he became so fond of must be doing. Today is different. 

“Is this truly the life you have chosen for yourself, Flayn?” Her father’s voice is soft in exhaustion. “Forever traveling, spending all your energy on healing, risking discovery, day after day?” 

“It is.” What could be better than a life spent erasing the marks of war? “Do you still disapprove?” 

“I disapprove of the risk. But you have always had a heart full of healing; how could I disapprove of that?” 

“Father,” Flayn answers - surely she’s allowed this, with no one else to hear - “I am sorry to cause you pain, but I will always be glad of your support by my side. Even if you are sometimes overbearing.” She pulls him into a hug and buries her face in his shoulder, feeling fragile like a child again. 

“I worry, Flayn, but that does not detract from how proud I am of you.” He holds her for a long moment. “I only wish your mother could see you now. She would be as proud as I am.” 

Flayn laughs, because it’s that or cry. “Perhaps we should visit the coast next. A short break would not be so terrible.” 

“Perhaps. Now, sleep. You must keep your strength up.” 

Tomorrow is another day, side by side. 

**Author's Note:**

> i love comments
> 
> [im on twitter](https://twitter.com/thecaryatid)


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